


After dinner

by thecountessolivia



Series: The Anastomosis Snapshots [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Basically food and smut, M/M, PWP, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-10 17:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Hannibal's dessert-making gets out of hand





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Assume this takes place in the same post-fall reality as ["Pelt"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12890007)

The top of their new dining table is a rectangular slab of veined white marble, so heavy that it took four men to bring it inside and wrestle it into place under the added weight of Hannibal's glare. Though it works well to showcase Hannibal's meals — a cold blank canvas for elaborate colors and textures — Will hates it. Well, at least he hates it as a piece of furniture. Another part of him suspects that Hannibal had procured the table with some intention, conscious or not, of one day having it serve as their headstone.

Some evenings Will can almost see it, when the dishes are being cleared away and the candles are still burning, reflecting in the marble like funereal torches: his name, Hannibal's name, carved there together. Here they lie, and the world is unburdened and made marginally safer. Breathless biographies full of lies are being penned. The sentimentally misguided come and leave bloody offerings on the stone. Will doesn't hate the idea. It fits into the narrative of their new-found equilibrium.

A year has passed since the cliff and they have arrived at the kind of equilibrum that comes about when things finally fall into their inevitable natural order: together. But the idea of _dying_ together seems to have lodged itself so firmly in the romantic drama department of Hannibal's brain that Will is now certain they will leave this world hand in hand, sooner or later. It will probably be later. Hannibal has made plenty of other plans for the decades to come.

Tonight, for example: an appetizer of endive leaves and paper-thin black radish slices on which sit delicate pastry parcels of herbed goat cheese, ringed with dots of buckwheat honey. A main course of sautéed chanterelles, a small ramekin of gratin de boudin blanc and a prime cut of something formerly living, currently melting on Will's tongue.

He finishes the last bite and wants to lick the plate clean. It's taken from him before he gives any more thought to doing so. When Hannibal returns from the kitchen, he's carrying a plain silver tray containing two small sealed jars. Will raises an eyebrow.

"No dessert?" It comes out sounding childishly disappointed, but it's also a reasonable question. Yesterday he was served a perfect half sphere covered in shiny lime glaze and concealing a raspberry mousseline atop a ring of pistachio génoise. The night before brought a gooseberry sorbet accompanied by three tiny anise-flavored macarons. The night before that, a miniature tarte tatin with calvados cream and apple leaves shaped from white chocolate.

One of the jars is set before him. It's silver-lidded and made of thick-bottomed brown glass, covered with condensation. Will touches the side of the chilled glass.

"I'd like you to open the jar and start off by having a smell," Hannibal says.

"Um."

Will frowns and begins to loosen the lid with the rising apprehension of a bomb defusal expert. He's put somewhat at ease when Hannibal opens his own jar and brings it to his nose, eyes on Will.

The contents of the jar are a kind of oily, opaque jelly that trembles slightly as Will leans in for a sniff. His nostrils flood with the scent of toasted almond, pepper, some kind of wild herb. Will closes his eyes and pictures some spring in a green and ancient wilderness spouting this odd and fragrant ooze.

"Okay, this is weird, but it's you, so— care to elaborate?"

The subtle shift of Hannibal's shoulders betrays excitement.

"Perhaps it would be best if you tasted it next."

"You didn't give me a spoon."

"A finger will do."

"Hannibal. What the hell."

But Hannibal is taking the initiative and diving into the jar with the tip of his forefinger. Their history dictates that Will reluctantly follows suit. The second his finger sinks into the mysterious substance and slicks it against his thumb, he gets it. And almost chokes on his laugh.

"This is— wow. This is lube. You actually made lube."

Hannibal looks a bit stiff. "It's edible and completely safe."

"What the hell's in it?"

"Roasted almond and flaxseed oils, extracts of rose pepper and geranium, primarily. If you would—"

"Okay, okay, I'm tasting it."

Will runs a hand over his face to smooth out an incredulous grin. Then he closes his eyes again and licks his finger clean.

The slick herbal sweetness is the first to reach his tastebuds, almost medicinal. Then the almonds and something dark and saline and caramel-like. Then Will's tongue blossoms with peppery warmth. He makes a little involuntary noise of surprise and pleasure. He's used to making it at Hannibal's table.

When he opens his eyes, Hannibal is watching him from across the white marble slab with unabashed greed. Will shifts in his chair.

"This isn't a recipe of fortune, is it?"

"No." Hannibal fastens the lid on his jar and stands slowly. "In every respect it is meant to compliment the unique and unmatched taste that is you, Will."

Will feels the trace warmth on his tongue spill into his cheeks, fueling a rising blush.

"So I guess the answer to 'what's for dessert' is 'Will'?"

Hannibal's eyes flick between the jars, then back to Will. "You and I share every dish, no matter how uncommon. I see no reason why this one should be an exception."

"Bedroom?"

"If you would."


	2. Chapter 2

They stand face to face, feet apart, in the bedroom's crepuscular light. Clean sheets and a window left open earlier in the day have crisped and chilled the air.

A charge vibrates in the small distance between them. Will could close it anytime he wants, make his move and tumble them into bed for a quick fuck. He doesn't. He's half hard already: from the taste lingering on his tongue, from the plans churning behind Hannibal's eyes.

These days, Will's desire to step into undiscovered places of Hannibal's mind wins over everything else. The dark gems he finds inside are worth the price of admission. So he keeps still, keeps his distance, and waits.

"Prepared" is the only word he can find to describe the state of the bed. The bedspread has been removed and there are pillows at both the head and foot of the mattress. Will nods to it.

"You have something specific in mind," he says softly into the shadowed quiet of the room.

Hannibal sets the jars on the bed. He begins to undress.

"I do."

"Something we haven't done before."

"A first time for everything."

"Why the theater? We're usually more spontanous than this. I feel like I'm about to be put on display."

Hannibal's underwear is the last to come off. He watches Will with the smile of a cream-thieving cat. "Yet you're the one spectating. You haven't even removed your shoes."

Will hasn't. And he _is_ spectating. Hannibal looks better than ever, the gauntness of prison and injury gone under a light tan and muscles regained through daily ocean swims. Will's fingers twitch at his sides and he doesn't know if it's himself or Hannibal he wants to touch.

"You seem nervous," Hannibal says and takes a step closer. "It's very attractive."

Will blinks, suddenly battling butterflies of a new bride. "And you're talking instead of giving me some goddamn foreplay."

On the last word, Hannibal obliterates the space between them. The hard bulk of his body presses flush against Will's and the kiss Will gets is a wide and wet thing, filthy deep and hot. He moans into it. He begins to tug at his clothes and is given a helping hand.

They crawl onto the bed and kneel there together, as in prayer, mouths barely breaking apart. Hannibal's caresses smooth down Will's body and ease him, inch by inch, onto the sheets.

"There. Like this. Good."

Will is arranged. He finds himself coaxed down on his side and when Hannibal joins him it's with their cocks aligned to their faces.

Will's breath stutters. The sudden proximity of all that erogenous skin overwhelms him. He's been this close before, more times than he can count now, but never with his own arousal also at the mercy of Hannibal's hands and mouth.

He lays an awkward hand on Hannibal's hip and kisses his stomach. It's all he can manage while his legs are being parted and the stubble of Hannibal's cheek nuzzles the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Soft little bites follow, then kisses that trace up to the shaft of his cock. Will looks down the length of their bodies and sees Hannibal slicking his fingers with his scented concoction. The expression he bears is the same dreamy concentration Will knows from their meals together.

"Hannibal."

"Hm?"

"I don't know where to start."

Hannibal peers down at him. His eyes are as bright and black as collapsed stars.

"All I want from you tonight, Will, is gluttony."

No part of Will is spared the anointment: confident, brisk fingers slather the cool-then-warm lube between his cheeks, over his perineum, his balls, up the whole length of his cock. Will is still staring down, propped up on his elbow, breathing hard against Hannibal's erection. He grips it, as if to hold on to it while he braces himself to be devoured. He listens to the soft slide of Hannibal's body against the sheets, the occasional creak of the bed. Hannibal spreads him wide and swirls his tongue against the rim of Will's hole. Will nearly flinches.

"Oh god, fuck fuck..."

He's deluged with sensation: Hannibal's face buried in his flesh, hot breath and wet open mouth; the pointed muscle of Hannibal's tongue shoving in as far as it can, then pulling back to lap at Will greedily and without pause. Will can feel himself opening up. He's being pried and teased apart like some delicacy. He can hear himself, too: high, soft whines that come unheeded and embarrass him. So he wraps his mouth around Hannibal's cock to smother the noises that escape him and sucks hard.

It feels like the closing of a circuit. Will loses track of what belongs to whom. Everything is shared. The pleasure of being speared and eaten, the pleasure of sucking on his mouthful. He pulls back, rolls his tongue fast against the head of Hannibal's cock, then sinks down again. He gropes for his jar of lube and gets it open blindly with one free hand.

He can feel the harsh vibration of Hannibal's throat against his skin when Will spreads the lube over the shaft of his cock. He gives it one long, slow stroke, teasing out a fat drop of precome then leans in to catch it.  
  
The taste takes his tongue like a wildfire: Hannibal's taste, the taste of his strange edible gift, stoking each other. Gluttony and greed seize Will by the throat. He pushes and shoves until he's got Hannibal under him, mouth still full of his cock, ass to Hannibal's face and his own dick coming to rest against Hannibal's chest hair, which only gets him hotter. He can feel himself leaking onto Hannibal's skin.

He chokes himself with the full length of Hannibal's cock until his eyes water, then pulls back with a gasp. "It's so good. You taste so good." He gets more lube, spreads it with his fingertips, then sinks down again.

He hears a soft groan in reply. Hannibal's fingers slip easily inside him, warm and long and seeking. His lips and tongue are working underneath the length of Will's cock, devouring, licking him clean.

"And you're a banquet, Will. A feast. Shall I tell you what you look like?"

"Yeah. Tell me," Will murmurs then loses himself again in Hannibal's taste. He anchors himself with both hands spread wide on Hannibal's ass. His thighs get a few more bites, sharper this time.

"You're beyond lovely. All that skin, pink and wet where I've licked you open. So inviting. Your cock won't stop leaking against me. I can see it jerk every time you take me in your mouth. I can smell your orgasm while it's still inside you."

Will's fingers dig hard and bruising into Hannibal's cheeks. "God, suck me. I wanna come down your throat."

"Do you want more of my fingers?"

"Yeah. Yes please. Can I put mine inside you?"

"So that I can feel everything you feel?"

"Yes. In so many ways."

It ends with synchronicity: Will's cock in Hannibal's throat, Will choking himself greedily on his mouthful. Three lube-drenched fingers inside him, two of his own in Hannibal, moving with an ever more desperate rhythm.

When their climax sweeps through them, it comes as one. Will's senses dissolve into a briliant white noise and for a seeming eternity he cannot tell their two bodies apart.

\----

They lie together in the quiet tenderness of the aftermath, Will wrapped up in Hannibal's arms and in a cloud of scent: sex, geranium, pepper. He sighs against Hannibal's neck and fights post-coital drowsiness with all the strength he has left. There's something on his mind.

"This is gonna sound strange. But."

Hannibal kisses his brow. "Nothing you say can ever be strange to my ears. Tell me."

"This wasn't about, uh— degustation. You were trying to recapture something."

"A moment?"

"A feeling. From the cliff."

Hannibal is silent for long seconds. His arms tighten around Will. "An alignment of desires and a blurring of selves," he says.

"Yeah." Will looks up and finds Hannibal's eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Did I succeed?"

Will lays a hand on Hannibal's cheek and turns his face in for a kiss. He seeks after the last sparks of taste until they evanesce from his tongue and into his memory.

"I think you know you did."

 


End file.
